Food For the Soul
by Winam
Summary: If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then the way to a woman's is through her kitchen. Post 4x09 fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**Food for the Soul**

**By Winam**

_**= 1 =**_

His first day back from suspension, and it's been a nightmare. Back-to-back meetings with the DG, Juliet, and then the Home Secretary were followed by a catch-up with Adam, where he was handed a stack of files three feet tall. He rubs his weary eyes, which began to strain after he read his sixth file, but now on his God knows how many file, they blur. He pushes on regardless, barely noticing the approach of the Grid's last occupant.

"Goodnight Harry." says Ruth.

"Night, Ruth." His look of resignation brings a sympathetic smile to her face.

"Don't work too late." she tells him, before slipping through the pods.

The office is immediately bereft. Glancing at his watch he realises the lateness of the hour – if he is to get any sleep tonight he has to make a move now.

He closes the file, takes up his coat, and makes his way to the basement car park where his pool car awaits. During his absence his driver had been seconded elsewhere, and it took Harry the best part of an hour to get him back. Even then, Richard isn't going to be available until the following Monday, leaving Harry three days in which to drive himself.

The mist swirls as he exits the car park, but through it he sees a familiar figure sitting gingerly under a nearby bus stop shelter. The sight instantly brings a smile to his face.

"Need a lift?" he asks after pulling up alongside Ruth.

"First on the bus, now at the bus stop. Are you stalking me, Harry?"

He merely grins.

She lets out a dramatic sigh. "Alright then. Better than waiting another half an hour for the next bus."

He smells rain diluted with the unmistakable scent of her as she steps into the car. All his senses are attuned to her presence in this confined, intimate space. As the silence stretches, he feels the very rare onset of nerves; the kind that only happens nowadays in her presence. When he at last finds his voice, it is raspy.

"I haven't thanked you for sending those food parcels, by the way."

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her blush.

"I… I was a little worried, that's all; you being stuck at home with nothing to eat, nothing to cook. I didn't know exactly what to get you, so I got a bit of everything – maybe too much of everything."

"Believe me, it was greatly appreciated. At least now I have a stocked pantry."

She chuckles. "A rare occurrence at your place, is it?"

"Quite. Somehow visits to the supermarket have never been a priority, particularly when I hardly eat at home anyway."

"You better watch yourself," she gently chides, "All those years of eating out will come back to haunt you one day."

"That's what my doctor's been telling me for years." he acknowledges. "I know I should cook for myself more often, only that…"

He lapses into a rather embarrassed silence.

"What?" she asks, before adding, "Oh, I see – your cooking abilities leave a lot to be desired?"

"I wouldn't say I can't cook," he contends, "As much as I'm completely mediocre; anything more complicated than a fried egg is a stretch."

His genuine embarrassment compels her to reassure him.

"Cooking isn't rocket science, you know. I bet you could learn quickly if you put your mind to it."

"And burn the kitchen down in the process? I'd rather take dinner at the club."

"But cooking is an essential skill; you never know when it shall come in handy."

"I've no patience for reading cookbooks. Can you imagine me perusing one of Delia's volumes?"

She smirks at the image. "Then what about going to a cooking class? You'd learn quicker by example."

"Ruth, can you see _me _fronting up to a cooking class? And with my schedule, when shall I find the time?"

"But you need someone to show you the ropes, build up your confidence a little."

"Well, who do you have in mind?" he asks impatiently, "I hope not some prat like that Jamie Oliver bloke."

Who _could_ she enlist? She hasn't many acquaintances in hospitality, but even if she knows a hundred cooks, there would be few with the patience to deal with Harry's erratic schedule, not to mention his little bursts of temper. In her mind, there is clearly only one candidate for the job.

"No, I won't assign Jamie to you, nor Delia for that matter, even if she does know everything. No, if you don't mind, _I_ shall teach you."

"You? Really?" he says incredulously.

"Yes, it shouldn't be too hard to teach the basics so you can make use of that well-stocked pantry of yours. I'll even teach you how to avoid burning down the kitchen."

"Truly?"

"Do you doubt my ability?"

"No, no, not at all. I might not have _seen_ you cook, but those brownies you baked for my birthday were wonderful."

She beams; his praise giving her much encouragement. "So how about making a start this weekend?"

"Er, okay… I'm free Saturday afternoon, I guess."

"I'll drop by around two, shall I?"

"Alright." he replies gingerly, bringing the car to a halt outside her place.

His wariness greatly amuses her, but she does feel a little sympathy for him.

Squeezing his arm she says, "Don't worry, Harry. It'll be fun."

As he watches her unlock the front door and disappear inside, one thought runs through his head.

_Oh God, what on earth have I gotten myself into?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks everyone for the enthusiastic reception. We're not quite cooking yet, but we get a look at Harry's kitchen in this chapter.**

* * *

_**= 2 =**_

It had been a surprisingly easy week – much appreciated all round after the turmoil surrounding Harry's suspension, not to mention the Louis Khurvan incident– and on Friday afternoon, the team takes the opportunity to wind down at the George. Everyone is present save for Adam, who is spending the evening at the movies with his son, Wes; even, to everyone's surprise, Harry, who buys a round as soon as he enters.

"What's the occasion?" asks Zaf when Harry hands him his pint. "Not that I don't appreciate a drink from you, Harry."

"It's to say thanks for the past few weeks. I know Juliet isn't the easiest person to deal with, and," Here he grins enigmatically, "In the same situation, I doubt that many Section Heads would receive food parcels and DVD's."

This produces laughs all round.

"Well, I didn't want you to come back comatose from daytime TV." Zaf smirks.

"Yes, it's a worry when the most scintillating program happens to be _Ready Steady Cook_. Anyhow, I know I don't say this often enough, but thank you."

After they toasted, Harry drifts around the group; talking briefly to Zaf and Jo, who are sitting together most conspicuously; to Malcolm and Colin, who inform him that his house is indeed 'clean', after they removed a particularly sophisticated bug from his living room; but inevitably he ends up settling beside Ruth.

Glass of white wine in hand, she asks casually, "So, you all ready for tomorrow?"

"As I'll ever be." he tells her sheepishly, hoping that no one else in the group is monitoring their conversation.

"Don't worry about buying any ingredients – just make sure that the kitchen and utensils are clean – not that I'm suggesting you're a pig or anything."

He smiles. "I'll make sure the kitchen's spotless."

"And we'll start on something really easy."

"Well, I'm not thinking of going on Masterchef, you know, though maybe watching _Ready Steady Cook _is a good idea."

"Oh, I hope the food we'll cook is more appetising than the foul things concocted on that show."

He grins at her indignation, before saying, "Don't worry, I have faith in you."

After Harry departs, closely followed by Ruth, Jo remarks to Zaf, "Did you hear that?"

He tuts. "Eavesdropping again, Portman? Such a bad habit of yours."

"I couldn't help it this time, not with Harry talking about cleaning kitchens and cooking."

"Harry, cooking?"

She nods excitedly. "Ruth is going to teach him."

"Now this I _have _to see."

The next morning Harry awakes extra early in preparation for the big day ahead. His objective is to clean the house; not that it isn't clean to begin with, due to the cleaner he employs to come once a fortnight, but he wants to make sure, just in case. He decides to start with the most important room of all: the kitchen.

The April dawn is still breaking as he enters the room, casting a warm glow into the darkness. Turning on the light, he examines the space in a way he never has before. It isn't the most spacious of kitchens, merely an old-fashioned galley. Cream cupboards with green trim and a wooden bench top makes the space homely; the stove and fridge are nothing state-of-the-art but in working order; and the work surface is entirely devoid of appliances, save for a toaster, electric kettle, and microwave.

On the surface it seems clean enough, but in truth, he is curious to know what he does possess. He doesn't want to appear dim-witted if Ruth happens to ask him where the sieve or the peeler is later on. The problem is that he can't even remember buying the utensils. He'd moved into the house shortly after his divorce, and anything from that painful period remains a blur to him.

"Well," he sighs, "I might as well do things properly."

Starting with the drawers, he pulls out each item, examines it for cleanliness, and wipes down the drawer before reloading it again. In all, he discovers two vegetable peelers, a can opener, three bottle openers, a wooden spoon, an egg flip, and a pair of kitchen scissors. He also finds a colander, though no sieve, and inexplicably, a rolling pin, even though he doesn't know how to turn on the oven, let alone bake. A near-new frying pan and saucepan completes his collection.

_Christ, what can we cook with th__is meagre pile of equipment?_

He wonders whether a trip to the kitchenware shop is overdue, before chiding himself for being so domestic. In truth, he's always gotten by on his non-existent cooking skills. At Oxford he ate at the canteen, same while he was in the Army, and when he was married Jane always insisted that the kitchen was _her _space. After their divorce he'd been so busy with Section D that healthy eating was cast by the wayside, yet here he is, on the verge perhaps, of a culinary conversion. He smiles as he thinks of the cause. Ruth is no doubt going to have her work cut out for her where he is concerned, yet her enthusiasm yesterday was so infectious that it even has _him_ raring to cook.

_Or is it only because you'll have her all to yourself?_

He admits that the attraction is perhaps more of the latter than the former, but for her sake he shall make a go of it.

After completing a clean-out of the cupboards and drawers, he gives the surfaces a quick wipe-down before moving on to other parts of the house. By the time ten o'clock strikes he's done the bathroom, the hoovering, as well as taken Scarlet for her walk. Having achieved momentum, he now tackles his favourite chore – the garden. It is merely a tiny courtyard, bordered by hedges that separate his property from his neighbours, and rose bushes of dubious age. He also has a wrought-iron outdoor setting for two which he likes to sit at on the rare day that the weather is favourable and he is at home. Right now the plants are in great need of pruning, so taking a pair of secateurs and gloves, he sets about taming them.

The sun is warm on his back as he snips off the gnarled branches. Scarlet plays at his feet, scampering off occasionally to explore a nook, or to snatch at a butterfly. The birds can be heard chirping above the low hum of traffic, and the air is fresh after last night's rain. He breathes in deeply while he works, smelling the damp earth. There is something energising about getting his hands dirty. Perhaps it is the freedom of being out in the open after spending most of his working days indoors, or the almost meditative nature of the work, but only in the garden can he really unwind. As the pile of prunings grow at his feet, the tension in his mind and body eases, and in that contentment, he thinks again of Ruth.

He looks back over the course of their acquaintance. Before she arrived at Section D he was afraid that she would be another of those brilliant but lifeless brains from GCHQ; and Ruth was brilliant, but to his surprise, very far from lifeless. She caught his eye almost immediately with her mixture of humility and perceptiveness, and he quickly learned how perceptive she can really be. Her brilliant mind sees details and makes connections in a way that still astounds him, yet it was her quiet passion that first attracted him to her. She truly relishes her work, and it shows in a level of dedication that surpasses all on the Grid.

It is this vivacity that compels him, almost by necessity, to seek her out. His favourite time of day is when he chats with her on the rooftop or the Embankment bench. He can't recall when she became his confidante, but it is a role that she naturally fell into. She has a way of calming him when things go awry, of grounding him – something he's really come to appreciate during his suspension when their meetings were curtailed. She has over time become his friend; more than that, the person he is closest to; yet despite his burgeoning feelings she has never given him a sign of wanting anything more – until last week.

He recalls the moment of frission when he met her on the night bus. He's not forgotten the lingering touch of their hands as she passed him the memory stick – only the briefest of moments, mind, but there all the same. It has occupied much of his thoughts ever since, and now she is giving up her valuable time to teach him – a step forward in their friendship.

But where shall it all lead – to something wonderful, or something disastrous? While his heart prays for the former, all the while his mind is predicting the latter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Now, down to some cooking...**

* * *

_**= 3 =**_

The doorbell rings just before two. When he opens the door he sees not Ruth, but a pile of boxes.

"Are you sure you brought enough?" he says with laugh, immediately taking the top few so that her flustered face is revealed.

"I wasn't sure what you'd have," she explains, "So I came prepared."

He sighs. "Well, after taking stock of my kitchen this morning, I think you did the right thing."

They place the boxes on the kitchen bench, give an excited Scarlet a good-natured pat, before venturing out to her car to extract more boxes containing pots, pans, utensils, and ingredients. When everything is unpacked and laid out on the bench, Harry asks, "So, where to start?"

She pulls out a carton of eggs. "Let's start with these. It shall be a good test of your current capabilities. How do you usually have them?"

"Fried, I suppose."

"Then show me how you cook them."

He extracts his frying pan from the cupboard and places it on the stove. After setting a burner alight he melts a chunk of butter and with slightly unsteady hands cracks an egg into it. Everything is fine until he goes to turn the egg. He likes it 'turned over easy' but the trouble is that he can rarely keep the yolk in tact. This time is no exception.

"Damn! That always happens."

"It's okay, try again. This time wait until the white on top sets before flipping it over."

He gives the ravages of his first attempt to Scarlet before cracking another egg into the pan. Taking her advice, he waits a little longer before carefully sliding the egg flip under and turning it over – successfully.

"Well, what do you know?" he says with a grin.

"Not hard, is it?"

"It isn't once I know what I'm doing."

"That's much of what cooking is; master the technique and anything is possible."

In the next half-hour, Ruth teaches Harry the secret of good scrambled eggs ("Cook quickly, and don't handle them too much"), boiled eggs ("Wait until the water boils, then leave them for five minutes"), and even the rather tricky poached egg ("Just simmering water with a touch of white vinegar"). After frying tomato, bacon and mushrooms they retire to the dining room to enjoy their spoils with hot, buttered toast and tea. They weren't the only one enjoying the food; the delicious smells from the kitchen attract Scarlet, who wines at Harry's feet until he sets aside a strip of bacon for her to enjoy.

"I won't think of skipping breakfast again after this." he tells her while cutting into the oozing yolk of his poached egg. "I shan't be bored by eggs, that's for sure."

"And just in case you _are_ bored by savoury breakfasts, I've a sweet option for you to learn, too."

His eyes light up. "Pancakes?"

"Of the buttermilk kind. So if you're ready…"

Back they go into the kitchen. This time Ruth pulls out flour, baking powder, butter, sugar, eggs, and of course, buttermilk. Harry's curiosity is roused when she also produces a worn scrapbook full of recipes. She flips through pages crammed with cut-outs, until she finds the recipe she is searching for.

"Ever organised, I see." he remarks with no small amount of amusement – the scrapbook is Ruth personified.

She shrugs her shoulders. "One has to be with twenty years of recipes to organise. This way I shan't ever lose track of my favourites. Now, can you measure and sift the dry ingredients?"

Harry carefully measures out the flour and baking powder, and gently sifts them into the bowl before adding in the sugar. The wet ingredients follow before he lightly whisks the mixture.

"Easy does it." she instructs, "Over mix and the pancake becomes rather tough, I'm afraid."

"Shall I fire up the frying pan again?" he asks once the batter is just combined.

She shakes her head. "It needs to rest in the fridge for awhile so that the baking powder and buttermilk can do its magic. In the meantime, we'll make the berry compote."

"Compote? All rather posh, isn't it?" he teases.

Her eyes gleam in reply. "Only the best for you, Harry."

He finds the compote surprisingly easy to make. It's merely a mixture of sugar, orange juice, and frozen berries simmered gently until it gains a syrup-like consistency – something even a novice like himself can do. He is more nervous about flipping a batch full of pancakes, especially when he sees the amount of batter he has to go through. He voices his concern, but Ruth is ever reassuring.

"Believe me, it's easier than eggs turned over easy. At least it's easy to tell when a side is done – it's when lots of tiny bubbles rise to the surface."

And she is right. After a few batches he quickly masters the art of flipping so that pancake after pancake comes out golden brown. He even begins to thoroughly enjoy himself.

While another batch sizzles away, he glances at her. Rarely-felt warmth fills his chest to bursting. He is happy that she's chosen to be with him in this simple way, and that she seems happy, too. Her eyes are the bright, clear blue that he loves, and her whole bearing speaks of one who is at ease with her surroundings. Is this a glimpse of what domestic life with Ruth may be like? If it is then he only wants more of it.

They were rare enough in his first marriage, but that was all his fault; he was away from home five nights out of seven, sometimes nine months out of twelve. It was this time apart that widened the gap between Jane and him until they were practically strangers. In his naivety, he had done nothing since he thought the gap was bridgeable; that his love for Jane and the children would overcome any obstacle; until Jane filed for divorce. He realised then that love isn't nearly enough – that he should have spent more time cherishing simple family life, where his real self is, rather than hiding in the large, brash world of espionage where he would lose his soul.

He thought he did lose it. After his divorce his life revolved solely around work. He had much to give still, and a great desire to give, yet apart from the Service there was nothing, or more accurately, no one, to give to. Not that he isolated himself; in his role he was never alone. And not that he disliked everyone either – there were many he was fond of, but no one was able to bring his true self back again. Until Ruth.

The sound of Scarlet's bark diverts his attention. The little dog is bounding up on to the sliding glass door that leads to the courtyard.

"What is it, girl?"

She growls, inducing Harry to hand over the eggflip to Ruth and investigate; but when he looks out, all is still.

"Anything?" asks Ruth.

"Probably just a passing bird. If it was a potential intruder I think Scarlet's vicious bark has scared them off." he jokes, ruffling the dog's ears.

In the garden, Jo collapses behind a shed after sprinting through the hedge, closely followed behind by a slightly ruffled Zaf.

"Phew, that was a close call." she gasps. "You didn't tell me Harry has a dog."

"Um, I kind of forgot. Didn't think it was important since it isn't a Rottweiler or anything."

She thumps his arm. "Zaf, you're hopeless. Don't you know it's the little dogs that make the most noise? Anyway, it was probably a good thing it barked when it did. All that food's making me hungry."

"Well, Harry's made enough pancakes to feed an army, so why don't we just drop by?"

"And risk being shunted to GCHQ or someplace just as dreary? No thanks. Besides, I don't really want to disturb them – they looked really cute playing house together."

"Harry, cute?" he gasps, "Joanna, Harry may be many things, but cute isn't one of them."

To his amazement, Jo grins. "Not from where I'm standing, Zafar. Would _you_ sacrifice a Saturday to learn to cook?"

His look of indignation proves her point.

"See? I suppose that the best I can hope from you is being shouted coffee and cake."

"I can so cook a meal."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you might prove it to me one day, but right now I'm cold and hungry. So how about that coffee and cake?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for the overwhelming response so far! Not a lot of cooking in this chapter, but a bit of eating and a lot of sharing.**

* * *

_**= 4 =**_

They manage to polish half of the pancakes before Harry calls it a day.

"I hope you haven't any more lessons in mind for today."

Ruth laughs. "I think we can hold off doing a roast until next time."

"So my atrocious skills haven't put you off?"

"God, no; there's hope for you yet."

"Thank goodness for that. But I think I need to walk off some of this food – and so does Scarlet."

She nods. "I'll clean up a little while you're gone, if you like."

"Actually, would you like to accompany us? It's only to the park in the next street, mind, but it looks quite pleasant outside."

She agrees, and soon they are strolling through the dusk, with little Scarlet leading them.

"Who taught you to cook?" he asks when they pause to allow Scarlet to take a nature break. "Your mother?"

She shakes her head. "We didn't spend much time together when I was growing up; I was sent to boarding school at the age of twelve and was rarely home after that. When I _was _at home Mum was rather preoccupied with David, my new step dad. No, it was my stepbrother Peter who first taught me."

"Peter? Really?"

His knowledge of Peter Haig extended to his reading of Ruth's psychological profile when she first joined. He was a Special Forces soldier who had once been assigned to Princess Diana's protection team, but alcoholism ended his career prematurely. He died a year ago by his own hand; a circumstance he remembers vividly.

Ruth had applied for a week off at short notice. He thought nothing of it at the time since she asked for it so casually, and it was only when she came back distracted, and remained distracted, that he became concerned. One afternoon he found her on the roof, cheeks stained with tears. He managed then to extract the reason for her absence, but when he offered his help she shrugged it away. Still, he'd shielded her from too heavy a workload in the following weeks, and from the grateful glances she gave him, he knew that it was much appreciated. She never spoke of her family since, hence he feels privileged to be given a glimpse of her past.

"Peter lost his mother when he was fifteen." she tells him, "He and David were alone for a few years after she died, and since David was the kind of person who'd set fire to a kitchen just by boiling an egg, it was up to Peter to take up the cooking duties. He became quite good at it, too, and when he lived with us took charge of most of our meals. But more than that – he found time to teach _me_ as well. By the time I left for Oxford I'd no trouble cooking for myself or my friends. I take the skill for granted now, but I've never forgotten how eye-opening it was for me when I first learned."

Then she awkwardly stammers, "You, you don't mind me doing this cooking class, do you? I know I've rather imposed myself on you today, but…" she sighs, "I just wanted to share."

Her honesty is endearing. "No, Ruth," he tells her, "I'm just glad you think it's worth your while to share with a silly, old bugger like me."

They enter a small park with a sizeable green and a children's playground. The playground is deserted but there are a few like-minded dog owners exercising their charges on the lush grass. Scarlet guides them on to the green, before Harry lets her off the leash. She runs full-pelt to the very middle, and stops.

"What is she waiting for?" asks Ruth.

"This."

Pulling out a rubber ball from his pocket, he tosses it skyward over the dog's head. She eagerly pursues it, gathers it in a flash, before trotting back, victorious. After a few tosses Harry passes the ball to Ruth, who, despite the dog drool, takes it unflinchingly. The game continues until Scarlet loses interest. Harry then puts her back on the lead, before the trio begin a circumnavigation of the park. Ruth observes with delight the affectionate dog and the evident affection its owner holds for her. It makes her wonder of their history together.

"How did you come to adopt her?" she asks.

Her question is met by a surprisingly solemn silence. Harry purses his lips; wonders how much to tell about the circumstances that led to Scarlet's acquisition. These are memories he has struggled for a decade to bury; yet she deserves to know the truth about him, even if it is a truth he is ashamed of.

"She's a gift from Clive," he tells her sombrely, "Ten years ago, in the middle of a bleak winter; after a six month period where I'd lost access to my children; and lost my two best friends, along with my god-daughter, in a car crash."

She is dumb-founded. "Harry," she murmurs, "I'm sorry."

They stop walking. "It was a horrible year." he continues, "My marriage had long folded, but that year Jane started seeing someone else. At Graham's birthday party I let my temper get the better of me. It doesn't matter how, but as a consequence Jane couldn't even stand to be in the same city as me; she moved with the children to Oxford soon afterwards. I thought that not being able to see my children was bad enough, but things got worse. I then caused the death of my friends and god-daughter."

"No," she gently contradicts. "That couldn't be."

"But it was." he argues. "They wouldn't have been speeding down a country lane at twilight if they hadn't been helping me that day. Their lives wouldn't have been snuffed out too young, at a point when everything was so full of potential."

He takes a deep breath. "God, it's so long ago now, but the hole they left behind is still empty. I don't know how I managed to attend their funerals, let alone read their eulogies. It was unbearable, knowing what I did to them."

His chest heaves with the sheer effort of unburdening. Save for Clive, it's more than he's ever told anyone. She knows the truth now: he is nothing but an emotional cripple, a home-wrecker, a wreck of a man. Why on earth would she ever want to come close to him?

He diverts his eyes, ashamed. Archie and Amanda – the pair were his foundation for years, keeping him on an even keel when his marriage fell apart, enfolding him into their family, even after their daughter Lucy arrived. He was nothing without them, as he has been in the years after their loss. Even now the guilt refuses to lessen. As his emotions rise, he feels Ruth's steady hand upon his arm. Her touch comforts him; he's not had such comfort in his life for a long time, and the feeling is a balm for his many wounds. Not for the first time, he wishes for the courage to venture forward, yet that courage still eludes him.

They stand together as the light fades, the world turning from gold to black. He hears her ask, "Are you okay?"

He nods, slowly, shakily.

"C'mon then," she says, "Let's go home."

They cross the main road into his tranquil street. All along, she's not released his arm, but has instead hooked it through his. They walk together in this way, each step perfectly synchronised, like they've walked together all their lives.

"I've not yet finished my story." he reminds her.

"You don't have to tell me any more, Harry; I can see how painful these memories are to you."

"It's okay – it has a happy ending, after all." he replies, smiling at his four-legged companion. "So my _annus horribilus_ came to a close, and for the first time the DG gave me leave between Christmas and New Year's. Well, actually _forced_ me to take leave. I wasn't very well, and I suppose my lack of rational thinking got to him after awhile. Still, I don't know what the time off was meant to do except give me too many opportunities to brood – and drink. By the time New Year's Eve clocked in I was starting to permanently smell of Scotch. Clive looked me up that night, saw the state I was in, and at once gave me a talking to. Said that if I wanted the world to look less shit then I'd better stop viewing it through my arse. A few days later he turned up on my doorstep with Scarlet. I was furious at first, demanding what he meant by it, but he simply shoved her into my arms, and said, 'She needs you', before walking away. Well, little did Clive realise that it's been Scarlet whose taken care of me ever since."

Ruth kneels down in front of the shaggy dog, briskly ruffles her neck and back, and asks her, "So you've taken care of Harry, have you?"

"Oh yes, she's been a faithful friend," her owner says proudly.

"Clive knew you well, you know." she observes, "He saw the good in you or he wouldn't have entrusted you with Scarlet."

"Only that being good isn't enough, Ruth. One must back it up with action, and where my family, friends, and even my pet, are concerned, I've always been negligent – grossly negligent. That amounts to nothing but failure in my eyes; failure that is unforgivable."

At his anguished words, she stands, looks him squarely in the eye.

"Don't be so hard on yourself. Do you really think yourself a bad person?"

His silence speaks volumes.

"If that's the case, then how do you explain the last few weeks? As you said, not many Section Heads are cared for as we care for you. And why is that? It's because we know that you care for _us_ – about our wellbeing, not just our performance – and that you'd do your utmost to help us when things get tough."

"I can be the most caring person in the world at work, Ruth, but I know very well that that has no bearing on how I am at home. Ask Jane and she'll tell you that I can be a real bastard in the evenings. I might have good intentions, but unfortunately I'm poor in following them up."

"That can change, can't it?"

Can it? Can he stop using work to prop up the rest of his life? Can he reconnect with the people he loves? Ultimately, the only way to do so is to make time for them; something he rarely has in abundance. Yet it _must_ be possible. To think that he shall die like Clive – alone, lonely, trying to atone for his sins by writing his memoirs – doesn't bear thinking.

Ruth suggests, "Just little changes; perhaps you can start by spending more time with Scarlet?"

He reddens. "Actually, I've been thinking of lending him out to Wes for awhile. She needs more company than I can provide, and he'll enjoy having her – they were inseparable when he and Adam visited the other day."

"But who shall look after you then?"

He scoffs. "I can take care of myself."

"No, Harry, I was thinking of companionship. I very well know how pets can make a difference – how good it feels to be greeted by a friendly face at the end of a hard day. Who shall greet you when Scarlet is gone?"

He has no answer to give.

"Make time, Harry; for Scarlet, Wes, and Adam – even better; with all of them together."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"I'd like to make time – for you."

She flushes. "We spend enough time together at work as it is. There's no need…"

"It's not a question, Ruth. I'd like to spend time with you – love to, actually. I've really enjoyed today. And I'd like to get the hang of this whole cooking business."

She chuckles. "Then we shall have to organise another session. In fact…" She mulls over an idea. "What about having Wes and Adam over next time? We can try baking those brownies you like so much."

He is unsure if he's ready to venture into world of baking, but the idea is so simple and brilliant that he has only one answer to give.

"Deal."


	5. Chapter 5

**Back to Harry's house... and just to let you know that all recipes in this story have been tested and are available if you ask me nicely!**

* * *

_**= 5 =**_

A few stressful weeks pass before a day for Wes could be organised. Firstly, the consequences of Angela Wells' infiltration of the Grid had to be dealt with. Adam's gunshot wound to the chest had been a very close call; perhaps too close. But true to form, Adam, driven by the need to return to his son, recovered remarkably quickly. Indeed, he managed to sustain his good spirits to bribe, cajole and charm the medical staff into discharging him much earlier than expected, even though in reality he was in a still delicate state.

Their reunion was as joyous as a father-son reunion can be. Wes had been worried when he heard that his dad had taken ill, and in the first days of being home attempted to single-handedly nurse him back to health by making him endless cups of tea as he'd seen his mother do many times. To reassure him, Adam took to being more energetic than he really was; spending afternoons in the park kicking a football, though in reality he was physically exhausted.

"I can manage the pain," he tells Ruth, who came to visit him one evening after work, "But the exhaustion is something else. I get tired so quickly; I get tired from passing a football half a dozen times. I only do it so Wes doesn't worry about me. He was so concerned that he'd taken to tucking me into bed."

Ruth gives him a bittersweet smile. By his gaunt and pale appearance, she sees how weak and tired he really is.

"Sounds like you need help."

He sighs. "It'll be alright; I've been through worse."

"No." she challenges, "It's okay to ask for help, you know. No one would think any less of you for doing so."

"But who can I ask? I'm in no state to be interviewing babysitters, I've imposed enough on Fi's parents, and Mum; well, she's too far away."

"Any one of us on the Grid would chip in; perhaps we can mind Wes for a day?"

"We? Who is 'we'?"

Ruth is suddenly tongue-tied. "Um, me, and, um, Harry."

This revelation cheers Adam up like nothing has in days. "Ruth, you sly thing!"

"No, you've got it all wrong; we're not-"

"It's alright." he says gently. "I'm not about to blabber to the whole world; unless you want me to, that is."

"But the point is, we're _not_ together." She sighs. "It's just all rather awkward, when all I've been doing is teaching the poor man how to cook. Did you know that he survived on toasted cheese sandwiches for a week when he was suspended?"

"Until you sent him food parcels, you mean?"

"H-how did you know that?"

"Harry mentioned it at the pub once, remember?"

"Oh, yes."

"Seriously, I think it'd be lovely if the two of you get together. And most people on the Grid would think the same."

"Really? You don't think it out of order, since he _is_ our boss."

"We just want the best for both of you." he sincerely tells her.

Her eyes prick with emotion. Her feelings for Harry have escalated since their cooking class, and his declaration that he would like to spend more time with her. It almost overflowed when he came close to being on the end of one of Angela Wells' bullets. Now she wants nothing more than to spend time with him. They may have hardly been alone since, but judging from the spine-tingling way he looks at her now, perhaps this is what _he_ wants, too?

"But…" she hears Adam continue, "Did I hear you right before? Do you really want to baby-sit? More importantly, does Harry?"

"How difficult can an eight year old be after babysitting five Home Secretaries? Yes, I'm sure he's up to it. Besides, we have some activities in mind."

"As long as it doesn't involve the dog track, then I'm happy."

Ruth grins. "Harry's right – you _are_ still sore about losing the bet."

"No," he pouts, "I just don't want my son to be involved in gambling this early on in life."

Ruth is not quite convinced, but is willing to let the matter slide this time around.

The weekend begins with Ruth once again appearing on Harry's doorstep laden with boxes, though having left much of the equipment in his kitchen last time, she can now carry the remainder all by herself. He greets her with a wily grin; so does Scarlet, who sniffs around her until her curiosity is sated.

"Ready for another lesson?" asks Ruth once they are settled in the kitchen.

"I'm not sure I'm up to baking; the oven looks rather… daunting."

"There's no need to be scared of the oven, Harry." she reassures, "It can be a real friend if you treat it right. And I'll start you off on what has to be the simplest brownie recipe on the planet."

"It might be simple for you," he says as she pulls out her scrapbook, "But when the only recipe I have under my belt is scrambled eggs, I've a right to be worried."

"One pot cooking, Harry." she tells him enthusiastically, "I _assure_ you."

"Well, you know that I trust you completely, don't you?"

Suddenly the air bristles with energy, as the meaning of his words sink in. Neither of them are profuse with their emotions, so Harry's statement is akin to a declaration of love.

"Yes," Ruth softly replies, "I know you do."

They lock eyes, and for the first time witness the unguarded emotions of the other; a softness in his eyes, a yearning in hers that excites the hopes of both. But the moment is all too brief; the doorbell chimes before anything could be said, or done.

"Uncle Harry! Aunty Ruth!"

At the door, they are both embraced by a very excited Wes, accompanied by a rather sheepish Adam.

The boy immediately asks, "Where's Scarlet?"

A riotous bark signals the little dog's arrival, and Wes wastes no time in getting reacquainted with his mate.

"You'll be good, won't you, Wes?" asks his father.

"I'm always good, Daddy."

"Why don't you take Scarlet out to the garden?" suggests Harry.

The pair disappear in a flash, leaving the adults standing at the door.

"Thanks, both you. You're a real-saver. I'll be back around four, if that isn't not too late. Hopefully your entire house won't be destroyed by then."

Harry grins. "I'm sure we'll manage."

"Yes, don't worry about us," Ruth interjects, "You just rest up today, and we'll take care of things."


	6. Chapter 6

**Just the antidote to all HR angst that's happening on screen and in fics at the moment - more fluff!**

* * *

_**= 6 =**_

After Adam departs, they find Wes and Scarlet running around the tiny courtyard. Seeing their unbridled energy reminds Harry of his own son at that age, and how the usually quiet, sullen boy seemed to shine when he played with the family dog. He then remembers that he still possesses a relic from that era.

Leaving Ruth to keep watch over boy and canine, he scrummages through the boxes in the spare room until he finds a rugby ball. It is admittedly in a rather sorry state, but a good pump of air soon restores it. He returns to the kitchen to find that Ruth has turned on the oven and arranged the ingredients for making burger patties on the bench: mince, egg, onion, and dried herbs.

Ruth eyes the ball in his hands and remembers that he has interest in rugby. She isn't at all sports-minded, but the image of Harry, running, passing, and tackling the life out of men twice his size, is nevertheless compelling.

"You're not going to play out there, are you?"

He smirks. "Why not? The hedge makes an excellent substitute goal post."

Ruth shakes her head; she doesn't often see Harry in such a mischievous mood, and the twinkle in his eye is captivating.

"I think Adam wanted you to _prevent_ Wes from destroying the house, not for you to encourage it."

"Oh…?" he exclaims, all wide-eyed innocence.

"And you'll have plenty of time to play in the park – _after_ lunch."

He sighs dramatically. "Spoil sport."

"Didn't you want to learn to cook?"

"Yes…"

"Well, today lunch doesn't cook itself, so why don't you call Wes in?"

With a melodramatic hang-dog face, Harry fetches Wes. The boy is at first rather perturbed to be parted from Scarlet, but becomes enthused when he discovers that burger-making involves getting his hands very icky indeed. However before the patties could be made there are onions to chop.

"Harry, would you mind taking care of that? As fine as you can, please."

Since Harry's knife skills are practically non-existent, he is relieved when Ruth demonstrates first. When his turn comes, he takes extra care to cut the onion and not himself. However his slowness works against him; the powerful onion vapours soon take hold and reduce him to tears.

"Bloody h-"

"Uncle Harry, you swore!" cries Wes.

Ruth looks up to see tears streaming down Harry's cheeks. She struggles not to laugh as she says, "Wes, can you fetch the tissue box from the bathroom?"

After Wes leaves the room, she asks, "You okay?"

He nods, wiping his eyes for the first time in years. "Didn't expect those onions to pack such a punch."

"Tears are unavoidable, unfortunately, especially when you have to chop more than one onion. But you're doing well." she tells him smilingly.

He shakes his head. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Here you go, Uncle Harry!" Wes says, holding out the tissue box.

"Thank you, Wes."

Harry takes half-a-dozen and cleans himself up before recommencing. Fortunately, the job is accomplished quicker than he anticipates, and soon Wes is elbow-deep in the beef mince mixture.

"This is better than making mud pies!" he exclaims as Ruth adds a beaten egg, herbs and Worcestershire sauce to the bowl.

"I would think so." she quips. "It shall taste better than a mud pie in any case."

"Yes, mud pies are _horrible_."

"What, you've eaten one?" asks Harry.

Wes nods. "My friend Damien dared me one time. He said it'd taste like chocolate. It _looked_ like chocolate, but it didn't taste anything like it. And I got a tummy ache that lasted for _days_."

Ruth and Harry exchange knowing looks. Boys will always be boys.

Next, they all took turns in balling up the mince into patties.

"This is yours, Uncle Harry." says Wes as he puts down a mammoth-sized patty on the baking tray.

"Er, thanks Wes. Why so big?"

"Because Daddy says tiny ones are for girls. A man needs lots of… sus-sus-sten-nance."

Ruth chokes back the laughter before saying, "Am I a girl now, Wes?"

This requires some thought. "I guess not. You're as old as Mummy, aren't you?"

The mention of Fiona takes all the laughter out of her. "Um, roundabouts." she eventually answers.

"Then you can have a big one, too."

After the patties are made it is time for Harry to once again put his flipping skills into practice. He is relieved to find that flipping burgers is even easier than flipping pancakes. It also gives him time to observe his kitchen companions. Wes chats animatedly about his playground achievements as he tears some iceberg lettuce, while Ruth slices some tomatoes and cucumbers, and interjects now and then. Occasionally she gives Harry a little mesmerising smile that renders him speechless. He even manages to forget about his burgers at one time, until an acrid smell fills his nostrils.

"Bugger!"

Wes giggles. "Uncle Harry swore again! Does he always swear this much, Aunty Ruth?"

"Um, not usually." she replies, glaring the beetroot-faced Harry. "But I think we'd better not distract him anymore, otherwise we'll have no lunch."

Without further distractions, Harry did manage not to burn anymore patties, and soon the trio are assembling their burgers. Wes decides on a no-nonsense cheese burger (cheese melted under the grill, and smothered with ketchup). Harry's burger is unusually extravagant – he creates his own version of 'the lot' with cheese, pickles (which Wes disproves of, "It's disgusting"), tomato, lettuce, onion rings, tomato ketchup, and tops it off with a fried egg which he cooks perfectly. Ruth meanwhile decides to forgo the cheese but piles on the salad ingredients for a healthier take. She grins as the two lads devour their creations.

"It's better than Mickey D's." mumbles Wes in-between bites.

"It's been years since my last burger," Harry admits, "But if they're all this good I wouldn't mind having them more often."

Within five minutes they are ready for seconds, but Ruth advises them, "Make sure you leave room for the brownies."

"Brownies? I _love_ brownies." Wes tells her.

"You and me both." says Harry.

"But where are they, Aunty Ruth?"

"We're going to make some." she reveals.

"We? You mean me and Uncle Harry?"

"Yes, the two of you."

Wes looks sceptically at the man. "But I don't know how to make them. Do you know, Uncle Harry?"

Harry can only smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "No, but I know that Aunty Ruth does."

"So you're going to teach us?"

She nods. "You'll get to cook with _lots_ of chocolate. I've made these plenty of times and I always have fun."

"Will they be as good as Nan's?

Ruth laughs. "I haven't tasted your nan's brownies, unfortunately, but I _hope _these shall be as good."

"Don't worry, Wes." Harry whispers conspiringly, "I've had a taste of Aunty Ruth's brownies before. And if they aren't better then your nan's, then I'm sure they'll come _very_ close indeed."


	7. Chapter 7

**I must say that writing this has been therapeutic after all the angst in Series 8! It's also getting sillier by the chapter, but oh well, what's not to love about H/R, chocolate and brownies?**

* * *

_**= 7 =**_

Harry's endorsement of Ruth's brownies is good enough for Wes. The lads are so enthused by the prospect of eating lots of chocolate goodness that they help Ruth clear the bench, and even do a little washing up. Meanwhile Ruth lays out butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, flour, walnuts, and of course, two blocks of dark chocolate.

"Are we going to use all that?" asks Wes.

"Yes, most of it goes into the brownies – but there may be a few squares of chocolate left afterwards to nibble on."

"Ruth, one does not 'nibble' on chocolate." Harry declares.

"Well I certainly don't _inhale_ them," And in a lower tone, "Though I suspect that you do."

"When have you seen me inhale chocolate?" he huffs.

"Well…"

"Can we start now, please?" asks Wes.

He is right to get them back on track, before their flirtation ventures into dangerous territory.

Getting back to the matter at hand, Ruth instructs Wes to break the block of chocolate into pieces and Harry to cut up the right amount of butter. They both go into a saucepan, and under Harry's watchful eye, melt into an oozy, glossy mixture. He gives the concoction a stir every now and then, until it's blended perfectly, then little by little, Wes adds in the sugar. At this point the mixture has thickened to a cake batter consistency.

"Well done, boys." congratulates their teacher, "Now it's off the heat."

Harry takes the saucepan to the bench, where Ruth and Wes take turns to add in flour, egg, walnuts, and vanilla.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Harry says worryingly as he intrepidly mixes, "It's getting rather thick and, I daresay, slimey."

"Positive." she replies, "This recipe hasn't failed me yet. And believe me, there have been times when I've been slightly off in my measurements, but the brownies still turn out a treat."

When the last of the ingredients are mixed in, Harry deposits the whole into a baking tin that Wes has busily been 'painting' with melted butter, and lined with baking paper.

"Is that it?" asks Harry after Ruth puts the tin into the oven.

"That's it. Told you it's painless."

"Can I lick the spoon now?" asks Wes. "Nan always lets me."

Ruth chuckles. She's not heard that particular request since she was a girl.

"Of course you can."

"Uncle Harry, you can have the bowl."

The indignant look on Harry's face is something to behold. "I'll have you know, young man, that grown ups don't lick bowls."

"But it's the best bit!" cries the boy, whose lips are now covered with chocolate.

"He's right, Harry," Ruth says, wiping the side of the bowl with her finger and then slowly licking off the batter. "Mmm, it _is _the best bit."

Harry's eyes remain fixed to those plump lips, as he murmurs, "Then I shall have to try it, won't I?"

Before she could react, he snatches the bowl away from her grasp, and proceeds to lick the bowl, literally. Both Ruth and Wes couldn't believe their eyes and roll around in hysterical laughter.

"Mmm, you're right about this being the best part." Harry mumbles.

When the bowl is clean, he puts it back on the bench, revealing a face smeared with chocolate. So gorgeous did he look that Ruth doesn't know how she restrained herself from kissing him senseless. And then an idea comes to her.

"Where's Aunty Ruth?" asks Wes, now finished with his spoon.

"In the bathroom, I suppose." And then glancing at the leftover chocolate squares, asks, "Do you think she'll mind if we tuck into these, too?"

Wes grins. "No – she did say we could nibble on them after."

"Hmph, nibble my foot. Let's go halves, shall we?"

The lads get half way through their chocolates when they are startled by a flash.

"Oh God-" moans Harry as he sees a camera clutching Ruth grinning insanely at the kitchen door.

"Well, I had to record this scene for posterity."

"Don't you _dare_ circulate this photo at work."

"Me, tarnish your hard-nosed reputation? Of course not – but I shall have to let Adam see this."

Harry groans. Adam Carter may be a fantastic spy, but around the Grid his gossiping abilities are second only to Zaf's.

"He has a right to know what his son's been doing all day, you know." she justifies.

Harry sighs. "Then do me a favour and edit me out of the picture before you circulate it, will you?"

"Mmm, I'll have to think about that."

"Please?"

"Harry, you're blushing."

"I don't want to beg, Ruth."

"Er, I believe you already are."

Ruth puts down the camera, then after ripping off a paper towel, dampens it, and steps in front of him.

"Hold still."

The instruction is rather redundant; Harry is frozen to the spot as Ruth proceeds to gently wipe the chocolate smears off his face. She is so close that he can feel her breath on his face, can see the adorable laughter lines around her mouth and eyes as she goes about her task with mischief, and could it be, desire?

"There." she finally declares, moving away quickly to firstly dispose of the towel, and secondly to direct her eight year-old charge to the bathroom to clean himself up.

"You've not answered my question." Harry reminds her when Wes is out of the room. He holds her gaze with great determination, until she relents.

"Oh, alright." she answers in defeat, "I won't circulate it, even to Adam."

_Though it d__oesn't mean that I'll delete it._

Harry is satisfied with her reply, and a few moments later they are rejoined by an all-clean Wes.

"Right, the brownies have awhile yet to bake," Ruth tells her companions, "So you boys are free for a little while."

"Want to take Scarlet to the park?" Harry asks the boy, "Or shall we make use of this?"

Harry produces his rugby ball, to Wes's great delight.

"Tell you what, why don't you have a game now?" Ruth suggests, "Me and Scarlet shall fetch you when the brownies are done. Can't let these babies burn."

"Oh no, we can't have that." replies Harry, eyes twinkling, "Since I'm very much looking forward to feeding them to you."


	8. Chapter 8

_**= 8 =**_

The afternoon is once again clear, if a little overcast. Having donned tracksuit bottoms and trainers for the first time in months, Harry walks alongside Wes, who tosses the rugby ball from hand to hand.

"So has your dad taught you some tricks already?" Harry asks, "I know he played a little when he was younger."

Wes screws up his face. "Mmm, not really. I want to be a scrum-half like Jonny Wilkinson, but Dad played lock, so he's _hopeless_ at kicking and passing."

"Really?" Harry replies with a grin. "Well Wesley, you're in luck; I played scrum-half myself, so I guess it's up to me to teach you the trade secrets."

"Can you?" the boy asks in excitement. "So I can throw a torpedo pass, and do those curvy penalty kicks?"

"Why not? I'm a little rusty, but I think I can remember how to do a proper pass at least. And as for kicking, let's see how we go with punt kicks first, shall we?"

When Ruth and Scarlet arrive at the park half an hour later, they are met by the sight of man and boy kicking the rugby ball from one end of the green to the other. Ruth is impressed by Wes's ability, for though Harry punted the ball sky high, the boy is able to catch the ball on most occasions with ease.

She also marvels at Wes's resilience. Looking at him today, it's hard to believe that he'd lost his mother only months before, yet from her conversations with Adam, she knows that Wes misses his mother greatly. Ruth is glad that she and Harry can give something back to him today. Having taken so much, she only wishes they could do more.

As for Harry, she is impressed by the vision he presents in sports wear, completely relaxed and happy. It's a rare sight, but then today she has glimpsed many aspects of Harry that she's rarely seen. This is the man beneath the spook who doesn't bat an eyelid at making life and death decisions. Perhaps this is the person he might have been if he'd not joined the Service? One with a life other than work, and a family in tact. But then, she would never have met him, and where would she now be?

Ruth waves to attract their attention, and the lads soon come over. Wes quickly forgets about rugby when Scarlet greets him with a yelp and a lick.

"You can take Scarlet on a round of the park, if you like." Harry suggests, to which the boy immediately agrees to.

"Why do I get the feeling that Scarlet's going to get a month's worth of exercise in one afternoon?" observes Ruth as she watches boy and dog race away.

Harry chuckles. "It's about time, anyway. I haven't walked her as often as I should, and judging from how heavy she seemed when I picked her up this morning, neither has her handler."

"Weren't you going to make time for her?" Ruth asks smilingly.

"I've honestly tried," he confesses, "Only when one has Angela Wells to deal with, and a friend seriously ill in hospital, time quickly becomes a rare commodity. I've not even made time for you – that's one promise I regret not keeping."

What can she say to that? Not a lot when her voice refuses to function, mesmerised as she is by his gentle eyes. Not when she feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as the air between them crackles. And when she at last finds her voice, she can only murmur his name.

The sound makes his heart beat ever faster. He finds himself stepping closer, until barely an inch separates them.

"Oh, Ruth."

He stops, paused by the feel of her palm against his chest, which he quickly covers with his hand. Stroking her smooth skin gently with his thumb, he marvels at how long it's taken for him to find the courage to do something as simple as this, and the power that such a simple action has upon him.

Silence continues for what seems an age, caught as they are in the moment. There is no doubting their feelings now, and this discovery buoys the hearts of both.

Before he could change his mind, he dips down, kissing her upturned lips slowly, gently; and all too briefly. He lifts his head, uncovering her luminous smile that has him aching for more.

"I'll make time for you, Ruth," he promises, "Starting from tonight."

She chuckles, and huskily replies, "I'll hold you to it this time, believe me."

With the taste of each other still on their tongues, they entwine hands, and set off to find Wes and Scarlet.

The brownies, dark and tempting, await on the cooling rack when the trio return to the kitchen. Harry immediately takes charge of the kettle, while Ruth pours Wes a glass of milk. Wes eyes the brownies with a grin.

"It looks so yummy, Aunty Ruth. Can I have one now?"

"Not until you wash your hands."

"Please?"

But she is unmovable on this score, and Wes is duly dispatched to the bathroom.

With the boy's departure, Harry immediately swoops down on the brownies.

"Hey! Where are your manners, Mr. Pearce?"

"Can't wait." is his answer as he takes a generous bite.

"My God, Ruth," he mumbles, his mouth full of brownies. "This is even _better_ than I remember: rich, chocolatey, smooth, with just the right amount of sweetness. I _love_ it."

She smiles. "I'm glad you do, but Wes isn't going to be happy that you've dug in first."

She is right. Wes is rather indignant when he re-enters the kitchen.

"Uncle Harry, why didn't you wait for me?"

"Because Uncle Harry's very _rude_." scolds Ruth.

Harry manages to look suitably abashed, as he says, "I'm sorry, Wes. Here, you can have the biggest piece."

"What about you, Aunty Ruth?"

"This one is for her." says Harry, lifting up a small piece. "Open wide."

Ruth blushes as Harry feeds her the morsel, but quickly recovers to give him a cheeky, sexy grin that has his heart racing.

She isn't the only one grinning. Wes sports one just as mischievous as he asks, "Are you two going to get married?"

The question leaves both adults stumped.

"We, um…" Ruth mumbles.

Harry is a little more coherent, and shoots back, "What on earth gave you that idea, Wesley?"

"Because you're both really happy, like Mum and Dad were."

Harry gives him a bittersweet grin. It is true that Wes is the epitome of all that is joyful and sorrowful in a union between two people at the top of their profession: joyful because Fiona and Adam had managed to beat all odds and rear a lovely child, sorrowful because of the loss this child has had, and perhaps still has, to endure. No matter how hard Adam tries to protect Wes from harm, he shall never be able to protect himself, as his recent shooting testifies.

That this may be _their_ reality is foremost on their minds. Being with the man she loves and starting a family with him, is a possibility that has opened up today for Ruth, yet little Wes provides a stark reality check. Does she want children when the risk of their losing one or both parents is so high? Harry meanwhile wonders if it is possible to protect his family whilst remaining so close to his work. He has failed once; what if he failed yet again? Would he be able to bear the fallout? More importantly, would Ruth?

Ruffling Wes's hair, he admits, "You're right, you know. We are happy today."

"But are you getting married?" Wes demands.

Ruth answers, "Two grown-ups can be happy together without getting married, Wes. Besides, they have to love each other first."

"But you love Uncle Harry, don't you?"

Ruth blushes profusely while Harry grins. The boy is certainly like his father – eight years old and already gifted in the art of interrogation.

"Now, now, Wes, that's enough." says Harry. "Let's concentrate on these brownies instead, shall we?"

They retire to the dining table with their beverages and brownies. For once, Wes is silent as he happily devours his treat. Harry and Ruth too are quiet, although for entirely different reasons.

They are both thinking of Wes's timely observations. Are they so transparent that an eight year old boy can see right through them? In a way, it makes their situation all the more tenuous – concealment may be nigh on impossible once they are together. Yet why must their relationship be concealed? There shall always be risks where the two of them are concerned, both within and without. They will have to weather the storms of gossip and tackle enemies of all kinds, but given their bond has been forged by years of respect, trust and friendship, surely they can endure and thrive? For if their connection continues to strengthen, anything is possible.

One thing is certain; they may have straddled the line between friendship and beyond for years, but after today neither want to go back to simply being friends.


	9. Chapter 9

_**= 9 =**_

Adam arrives not long after.

"No problems then?" he asks Harry at the door.

"Why should there be?"

"Because I know firsthand how combustible the combination of children and animals are?"

Harry grins. "Well, you haven't seen what happens when you add chocolate to that mix."

"Sounds like you had your hands full." Adam says with a laugh.

"Not at all." replies Harry as they walk towards the kitchen. "Wes has been very well behaved today, hasn't he Ruth?"

"Hasn't he what?" she asks, looking up from the sink, elbow-deep in suds.

_This is all rather domesticated,_ Adam thinks to himself. _Maybe something is going on between them after all?_

When Harry repeats his question, she replies cheerfully, "Oh, no problems at all. Wes's been happy just playing with Scarlet, to be honest."

"Looks like I may have a job prying him away from here." chuckles Adam.

"He was pretty good during our cooking class, too." says Harry, "But then Ruth's a good teacher."

"Cooking? Really?" asks a curious Adam. "Wes's not shown any interest in the kitchen before, apart from eating everything in sight, of course."

"I guess learning how to cook the things he likes helps," reasons Ruth, "Especially when they're favourites like hamburgers and brownies."

"Speaking of brownies," adds Harry, "Would you like to sample our creation?"

Warily, Adam takes one from the plate, but after a bite immediately exclaims, "Wow, that's fantastic – it's so rich that it should be illegal. No wonder Wes is still whizzing around the garden."

They watch Wes chase Scarlet outside for a time. The sight of Wes so happy moves Adam, compelling him to say, "Thank you. You don't know how good it is to have some time alone, and know that Wes is well-taken care of."

"Oh, Adam," Ruth sighs, "You're not expected to rear Wes without help, you know. As a matter of fact, have you thought of getting a full-time nanny?"

"I have – only that I feel guilty entrusting him to a stranger when it should be me taking care of him."

"You know that it's a trade-off between family and work, Adam," Harry tells him, "Especially with a job like ours. It's hard enough when there are two of you. When you're on your own…" He shakes his head. "Believe me, I've tried and failed."

"Look, why don't I contact a few agencies and wade through the CV's?" Ruth suggests, "Then all you have to do is conduct the interviews."

"Would you? God, it'd be a load off my shoulders to have someone there for Wes."

"Then consider it done."

Adam and Wes leave soon after, although not before the boy gives Ruth and Harry a big hug, and begs his father for a dog "just like Scarlet". Adam merely smiles, first at his son, and then at his two colleagues standing together by the door.

_They do look cute together,_ he muses. _I just hope it all works out._

Harry closes the door behind father and son, and suddenly it is just the two of them again. Invariably, awkwardness creeps in once again, rendering them both mum.

"You will stay for dinner?" Harry eventually – expectantly – asks.

To his relief the question elicits a gentle but charming smile from her.

"I already said that I would." she replies, "The question is, shall we stay in or venture out?"

"Let's go out – since I'm sure you've had enough of the kitchen by now."

Looking down at her slovenly casual dress, she answers, "I don't mind where we go as long as it isn't too upmarket."

"And just when I thought I was to have a romantic dinner with you." he teases.

"We might have to take a raincheck on the champagne and caviar, but it might still be sufficiently romantic. However if you want to postpone..."

"God, not at all – I wouldn't miss tonight even if the PM calls. I know of a cosy place close-by, but since dinner is a few hours away, would care for a drink first?"

Her smile is so radiant that it takes his breath away.

A short stroll later, they arrive at Harry's cosy local, although in truth, Harry has only frequented the pub a handful of times. Still, it's snug, not too lively, and a stone's throw away from the little Italian trattoria that shall be their dinner venue.

With a glass of red in one hand and a pint of bitter in the other, Harry makes his way to the corner booth that Ruth has chosen. She sits, gazing out at the street, her face illuminated by the fast fading light.

_Like one of Vermeer's maidens, _he thinks,_ a picture of understated beauty._

She snaps to attention when he places the wine glass in front of her.

"You're rather thoughtful there."

To his surprise, he detects a hint of a blush.

"Just thinking of how much I'm enjoying today."

_And how much __I'm looking forward to tonight._

He chuckles. "You're not the only one who enjoyed today. I only wonder why we've not done it sooner."

"Oh, I know the reason for that." she answers nonchalantly.

"Well, Miss Know-It-All, care to enlighten me?"

"Because we both care a little too much-"

"To not bugger things up?" he finishes.

She nods. "It's silly, isn't it – how two usually smart and perceptive people can be so cowardly when it comes to matters of the heart?"

"And if you hadn't come up with the idea of cooking lessons, we might have still been in limbo." Reaching across the table, he takes her hand. "I have you to thank for getting us this far."

"Well, if we continue being as open with each other as we've been today, then perhaps there's hope for us after all?"

She squeezes his hand in return, the afternoon sun rendering her whole face translucent, ethereal, and his liquid, brown eyes glowing with feeling. They talk more sincerely than they ever have before, about the times, particularly in the past year, when their interest in each other became obvious: all the late nights on the Grid when he'd wished he'd given her a lift home; all the times after a particularly difficult operation when she wanted to sit with him quietly, so that she can feel human again; all the times when he unloaded his hopes and fears upon her, wishing he had the courage to unload his heart as well.

But they talked not only of themselves, but of lost friends, too: Danny, Fiona, her brother Peter, his friend Clive, and the grief that still lingers with each parting. They vow that if they were again to lose someone close to them, they would not hide behind the veil of reticence but support each other openly. Conversely, they vow to celebrate the surprising moments of joy that make their day-to-day lives worth living – the enthusiasm of Malcolm and Colin, Jo and Zaf's vivacity, Ros's bone-dry humour, and Adam's resilience – because without the team, where would their lives be?

"I wonder what they'd think of us; here, together?" Ruth asks.

Harry scoffs. "Well, after today, I'm sure Adam knows there is something going on. But do we mind who knows, Ruth? Or would you prefer to keep it quiet for a little longer?"

She is unnervingly quiet for a while. "The only thing I mind is how they see _you_." she answers. "I don't want you to lose their respect for – for dating me."

"Why, why would that happen?"

"Because you'll be dating your subordinate. Our relationship shall generate gossip not only on the Grid but out of it. I daresay your counterparts shall be wringing their hands at the prospect of new ammunition they'll have to get to you."

"Oh, Ruth," he sighs, "First of all, I don't think you have anything to worry about from our team. They respect you more than you know, and I think the gossip shall soon pass from that quarter. As for other quarters, we can only take things as they come, and do the best we can together; because despite the dangers that may come, I can't let this chance pass by." Taking her hand he kisses it gently. "You're all I have, Ruth."

The emotion that his kiss generates is almost too much for her to bear. She wipes an errant tear from her face, before replying, "You're all I have, too. Which is why I can't bear for anything to happen to you; even if I want this to work more than anything."

"We can only do our best. Let's give it a try – slowly, quietly."

She gives a teary grin. "Harry, if we go any more slowly we'd not be moving at all."

"Whatever pace you like, Ruth – I mean that. I really want this to work."

She nods more determinedly. "Me, too – so let's do it – let's make it work."


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks very much for your patience on this chapter, which happens to be the final one. I hope it doesn't disappoint!**

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_**= 10 =**_

Time quickly passes, and they are soon sitting at a table in the Italian trattoria. It is an old-fashioned kind of a place, with checked tablecloths, fake vine-leaves hanging from the ceiling, faded photos of old _Italia,_ and a menu straight from the eighties – a world away from Harry's usual haunts, but he senses it is a place that Ruth feels at home in. And he senses right.

"Harry, this place is incredible," Ruth exclaims as she looks around the space, "Like something out of time warp!"

He chuckles. "So you don't mind this not being a sophisticated dining experience?"

She shakes her head. "There is a place for fine wining and dining, but sometimes one simply wants comfort food. Besides, this trattoria takes me back to my teens. My friends and I would hang out in a place like this after school. I can still taste the anchovy and my first real coffee right now."

Harry smiles. "I wasn't so sophisticated, I'm afraid. I don't think I developed a taste for Italian food until I went to Italy one university summer holiday. Then again, spending time in Italy is enough to make anyone a romantic."

"So you're a romantic, are you?" she jokes. "Most people would find that hard to believe."

"Oh, I have my moments – particularly when it comes to you."

"Is that right?"

"Absolutely. I'd go to the ends of the earth for you."

Ruth has to laugh at this. "Now that's too much!"

"But it's true." he replies with surprising gravity, "And I'd do much more without a thought."

By the look in his eyes, she sees that he means every word; and not for the first time that day she is overwhelmed by feeling. She is however not given a chance to become teary this time, as there are menu choices to be made.

They by-pass the pizza and pasta, and instead aim for the more hearty dishes of veal scaloppine and chicken parmigiana, accompanied by a carafe of red. Conversation is light-hearted and a little flirtatious; the alcohol doing its best to loosen their tongues.

When they have had their fill, Harry asks, "Would you like pudding, or should we head back for a nightcap?"

"I think I'm done with alcohol for the night, but we have some brownies still left over at home."

He smiles when he hears her say 'home'.

"I for one have no idea how there could be any left. Mind you, they'll go well with the port I have in my cabinet."

"Brownies and port? Sounds like a plan to me."

They leave the trattoria, walking hand-in-hand beneath Harry's golf umbrella through the drizzle. They revel in their newfound closeness – a sense of peace and rightness that warms their hearts.

"I really don't want this day to end." whispers Ruth.

"Nor do I." Harry replies just as softly. "It was a night just like this when I gave you a lift home – when you suggested our cooking classes."

"To think that that was all less than a month ago…"

"And to think that it's only the beginning – that we'll have plenty of days like this ahead of us."

She sighs contentedly, recalling the two happy days they have spent together thus far.

"I think I can handle spending more time with you. I can do a lot worse."

"Oh? Do you think you can do better?"

"Perhaps." she replies coyly.

"Well, who on earth can do this…?" he asks, kissing her hard until both their hearts raced. "Or this…?" he whispers, nibbling gently on her soft earlobe.

"Mmm..." she purrs, "That _is_ a hard act to follow – but I'm still not entirely convinced."

He sighs in exaggerated exasperation. Resting his forehead against hers, he then gathers her into his arms, growling, "Alright, Miss Fussy. What shall it take to convince you?"

In answer, she steals a quick kiss, before answering, "A repeat of your demonstration might _just_ do the trick…"

How they managed to get back home neither knew, only that some time later they find themselves on Harry's sofa, quietly exploring each other with sweet kisses and gentle hands. In between each burst of activity, they hold each other close; the rhythm of each other's breathing as soothing as any lullaby. The feel of her smooth, pliant body against the strength of his can only fascinate and thrill.

"The brownies..." Ruth somehow recalls, "Don't you want – oh, that feels _good_." she digresses, arrested by the sensation of Harry's hands sliding under her top, deftly caressing first her breast, and then her nipple, while his lips slowly trace her neckline and beyond.

"Forget about the brownies." he tells her in a sexy rumble of a voice, "I think I found something – someone – even more delectable – that won't disappear in a single bite. But since there's only one slice left, I want to enjoy every bite."

His eyes are full of need as he asks, "May I?"

"Oh, _yes_."

The next morning she awakens to the distant tinkle of a frying pan and the smell of smoky bacon. Is it what she thinks it is?

Ever curious, she crawls out of bed, slings on the nearest shirt (which happens to be Harry's), and creeps downstairs. At the kitchen door, she is met by the most astonishing sight: a bare-chested Harry Pearce whistling cheerfully to himself as he briskly turns the sizzling bacon.

Her heart positively melts. God, she loves this man: this big hearted, courageous, sweet man. And after the wonders of their night together, she is in no doubt of his feelings for her – she is simply thankful that he loves her as he does.

"Morning."

He lifts his head at the sound of her sultry voice. Turning around, he drinks in the sight of Ruth Evershed, all ruffled and sexy in his shirt, accompanied by a lazy smile.

"I thought you were still asleep; I was about to bring breakfast up to you."

"Were you?" she answers, stepping toward him.

"Yes; does that surprise you?"

"Nothing about you surprises me anymore."

"That's a shame." he grins, giving her a sound kiss. "Am I so predictable?"

"No," she grins, "Only that I know you better now. I know that you're so extraordinary that nothing is impossible for you."

"You were, once."

"Not anymore."

His lips descend once more, moving passionately over her full ones as she returns his kisses with interest.

"Harry?" Ruth manages to murmur after a time.

"Mmm?"

"The bacon."

"Oh – right." says he, immediately turning off the burner and sliding the rashes on to a plate.

"Do you need help with the eggs?" she asks.

He can only smile wickedly; giving flight to familiar butterflies in her stomach and a buzzing in her limbs.

"Somehow I think I can manage." he murmurs seductively, "You see, I have the best cooking teacher…"

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**Well that's all for this one, folks. I hope you've enjoyed the ride. Please drop by and give a final review - it's much appreciated!**


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